Tradition
by Karanguni
Summary: Not everything has to break you to help make you. Tseng/Elena, with hints of slash in the background.


His shirt collar is stiff with starch, but not so that it chokes him; she can hear the quiet breath of her nails as her fingers trace the curve of his neck against the material, a small sound that ends as she reaches his tie. The Windsor knot sits at the base of his throat, immovable.

'So?' he says, his voice a baritone reverberating through her. She thinks that she can feel him everywhere.

She breathes out.

* * *

Tradition, like the uniform and the paperwork and the money, is one of the few things that separate _Turks_ from _thugs_. Underneath it all, they know there's very little difference. It should bother them more; it doesn't. They follow Tseng; he's a man worth following, and that's the hardest thing to do and find in this day and age. Where he goes, they don't bother asking. They're all going to go to hell eventually, anyway.

* * *

And then she breathes in, and pushes his chin up. She's never seen him so exposed, the length of his neck pale and strong; it's therefore only natural that he smiles when she does this, the edges of his lips upturned as they never are. She slips two fingers in, pulls on the knot. It slides down in a whisper of silk, smooth and efficient and so typical. She doesn't take it all the way off. She leans in. He is warm, and wet.

* * *

Morals, once negotiable, are negotiable in both directions. Sitting in a half-assed office on the outskirts of Edge while watching the world fight for itself won't make up for dropping the Plate. But it doesn't matter, not to them; they are wherever they are and need to be. Whether Rufus is pursuing a pipedream or world restoration they're proud enough of surviving that they don't see a point in dying to repent for any of their sins, past or present or future.

* * *

When she pulls back, he licks his lips, and continues to stand there, waiting.

'You're too experienced at this,' she says, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. She's moved in between his legs, and this close he can see everything about her that matters: her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders, her smile. 'You're sitting there like this is normal!'

'It is normal,' Tseng replies, and this time it really is a smile on his face. 'To a certain degree.'

Elena recalls how things turned out the last time she swung a punch at someone, and decides that she's grown up enough since then to adopt better courses of action. She reaches back and pulls his hair loose; he keeps it up while they're in the office, for convenience's sake. It comes down, and she wonders why a man like him has such odd indulgences. 'What,' she asks, very seriously, 'shampoo do you use?'

His laughter is deep, until she pulls his head down.

* * *

It used to be different, in an age when he was younger and she was bright eyed. But things have changed, people have moved on. Veld visits, every now and then, in different guises. He always finds a way through the woodwork, worms up into their office when they're all least expecting him. Rufus suspects that Tseng leaves loopholes for the old Turk to find; he wouldn't be wrong. Once a Turk, and all that. You don't leave; you either keep going, or you exit the service in a coffin. It's in the way even Vincent didn't leave them there to die, in the way they still do some things the old way; the important things, at least.

* * *

When she lets go again, he's breathing deep. She laughs when she plucks at the buttons of his shirt. He looks down, watches her. 'Most people remove the blazer first.'

'Yes, sir,' she nods, almost giggling. She ignores his advice. 'But I like you like this.'

He raises an eyebrow, but Elena's long ceased to be too affected by it. Tseng's seen her fall off of chocobos and make disgusted noises at Jenova's remains; he's seen her drunk in Wutai and dirty in Corel; seen her laugh and cry and bite her lip against torture; and he doesn't call her a _rookie_ anymore for all that she still can't hold back her awe at the wide world, sometimes. Tseng doesn't mind that she's not jaded and cynical; Tseng minds very little at all, she knows.

She slips her hands against his bare sides, his skin warm under her palms and his scars rough against her thumbs. He inhales sharply when her nails scratch across the ridges of old tissue stretched across his stomach. She slides down to her knees, and presses kisses there until he shakes.

'Most people,' he says, 'are also more direct than this.'

'I plan to enjoy myself,' she shrugs, standing again. She touches the buckle of his belt, and looks him the eye, curious. 'Didn't you?'

Tseng looks at her.

* * *

It'd been different, for him. Veld had been anything but simple conversations and easy camaraderie. It'd been difficult; difficult to be the one in control, difficult to tell Veld what he wanted, difficult to stand there with all of the options and none of the restraints. Tseng still supposes that it was one of the things that made him stronger. There'd been nothing more frightening in the world than seeing his mentor acquiesce to his demands.

* * *

'How do you know, anyway?' she keeps talking, even as she pulls the length of his belt free and puts it aside. She unzips him and reaches her hand in and watches him as he starts to flush.

'When you're ready?' Tseng asks, wishing he could touch her.

'Yeah,' Elena nods, going red herself.

'Generally,' Tseng groans, dipping his head and closing his eyes, 'one is able to tell. You've been with us a while now.' He forces himself to look at her. 'And you're still here, aren't you?'

Elena swallows, and nods. 'Do you '

'You have to tell me what you want.'

'Okay. Okay. Just stay there, then.' Elena gently pushes his legs apart, nervous and bright and ready as she will ever be. Tseng, bracing himself against his desk with his hands on the tabletop, watches with eyes both hungry and proud. She slides back down to her knees, puts her head down and lays her hands on his thighs. Tseng's eyes dilate when he sees her put her mouth on him.

* * *

They all grow up in their own time; and there's always going to be someone to look after you, and someone who'll tell you you're ready even when you think you're not. They take the choice out of your hands, like they always do, then they give it back. In the moment that you have one of the most powerful men in the world on their knees for you, you learn to forget fear faster than you ever do when you're fighting for your life.

* * *

In the end, Elena chooses to have Tseng do nothing; something else that she's never seen him do before. She kicks off her slacks and slides against him, feeling oddly naked against his fully clothed form until he slides against _her_. Then she whimpers a bit, and moves very slowly down onto him, keeping her eyes on Tseng until she feels like she can barely breathe. She grips onto his tie and puts her other hand behind his back, and pushes herself up and then down, groans, and then does it again, and again.

'Elena,' Tseng bites out, fingers digging against the surface of the table like he can't stand to stay still but also as though he won't disobey.

'No,' she says, her voice high, 'no, no, don't move, don't.'

She moans when she feels his legs tremble. She can feel him, every part of him; knows how badly he wants to reach out because there was a time when she wanted nothing but to reach out herself. He won't unless she asks, and that newfound control sends a thrill through her like nothing else; she fucks herself down onto him with hiccups of both need and joy and the taste of sudden freedom, thrusting her hips until she feels herself go wet between her legs. 'Come on,' she whispers urgently, 'come _on_,' and then he does, stiffening and pushing his head against her neck to muffle the sound of her name and the word _please_. 


End file.
